Volition
by canicide
Summary: ITASAKU. How would you like to be romanced? A collection of drabbles exploring different, and otherwise compromising situations between Uchiha Itachi and Haruno Sakura. —fantasy: the memory of those green eyes will haunt him for nights to come.
1. volition

_volition /n/ - the act of making a choice._  
by Kaiserin Firebird.

* * *

She doesn't want to think of all the things that made her end up here: in the (cold, dark, gloomy) forest sitting on (damp, squishy) moss near a (warm, crackling, loud) campfire beside (the demon) Uchiha Itachi.

The night is very still, and nothing moves, nothing sounds, nothing breathes. There is nothing more than him, nothing more than her, nothing more than the two of them.

And no matter how hard she tries to ignore it, even her bones feel disturbingly unsettled.

When his (cold, long, strong, killing, hating, destroying, murdering) hands touch her face almost-gently, she shivers—whether it's from fear or anticipation, she doesn't want to know either.

So she sighs, loudly.

His face is oh-so-near to hers, and his (beautiful) red, red eyes stare at hers with an unreadable expression. He breathes in what she breathes out.

She blinks.

And suddenly she realizes how idyllic this little setting seems. If she just closed her eyes to what was in front of her, then maybe she could believe that he wasn't a shinobi, wasn't the man who ruined so many precious lives, and that she wasn't a kunoichi, that it wasn't her loved ones whose lives he ruined.

That perhaps he was courting her and she was playing hard-to-get.

She puts her (healing, saving, loving, caring, sharing,_ destroying, murdering) _hands on top of his, and slowly, gently, closes her eyes.

* * *

.

.

.

.

.

—"_Pull away from him!"_

Her heart lurches, and it starts to beat like the fastest metronome (_thud thud thud, what are you going to do next?_)

In all honesty, she hates thinking and she hates brooding all the more (because she hates feeling _guilty_, and something about wearing her heart on a sleeve always makes her feel that way). Still, she can't help but overanalyze _this—_this whole situation that brought her out of Konoha and (quite literally) into the hands of Uchiha Itachi.

To put it simply, she _knows _there is definitely something wrong with not doing anything to harm the man who killed the entire family of her most precious person—the same man who hunted her own best friend—when his hands are preoccupied with her face and he is studying her intently, almost reading her thoughts . . . not even if he could (swiftly, efficiently, heartlessly _and you know it_) kill her should he sense a spike in her chakra.

Her conscience pulls at her, _demands_ her to die trying anyway (especially because she _knows _getting rid of him would make everything easier… right?)

But her (foolish) heart can't—can't even let her point a kunai at him, not one meant to kill.

Because somewhere along the way, her (stupid stupid stupid) heart found a way to bind her so tightly to him he became someone she (undeniably) loves.

* * *

.

.

.

But no no _no_ she doesn't want to love him, not at all, and she's pulling away, away from this mess, away from this damn bond, away from him.

Because no, this isn't happening again, she won't let someone (_anyone)_ drag her down, not anymore. No matter how much she (still) loves Sasuke, no matter how much she (possibly-maybe) loves Itachi, too—

She doesn't want to spend the rest of her life watching people leave (again and again and again).

She doesn't want to spend the rest of her life waiting for someone to return to her.

Because if she gave in to this (childish, stupid) infatuation he'll inevitably. . .

. . . leave. Just like Sasuke did.

And if she gave in to these feelings (_iwantyouiwantyouiwantyouwithme_) he'll inevitably. . .

. . . hurt her. The same way Sasuke did.

There, she said it. She won't give in, she'll never give in.

So she won't hurt any more.

Love hurts.

Too much.

And so she doesn't want to love him.

Right.

(_but she does anyway.)_

And she does and she does and she does.

And she knows it will be her downfall.

_

* * *

_

It takes an eternity before she allows him to come closer, as she sits so very still and gives in, as he leans in, watching her open eyes as they flicker, shimmer, almost glitter in the fire.

She is tired of waiting, waiting, waiting—for Sasuke and Naruto and Kakashi and everything to leave and come back and not—and so she drops her clammy hands to his neck and pulls him in.

_This is my own moment._

Their (damned) lips touch and they kiss.

By the intense look in his eyes when he draws away, she has a feeling this is only the start of many.

* * *

**tyvm. :)**


	2. tremulous

_tremulous /adj/ - quivering as from weakness or fear_  
by kaiserin firebird.

* * *

The taste of her lips is like a brand to his senses.

He tastes her on his tongue, overly sweet, saccharine, and he likens it to a fruit, perhaps an apple. He feels it drowning him, surrounding him, consuming him. He hears her moan silently, delving her tongue further and further in him, louder when he flicks the roof of her mouth with his, while her hands cling to his hair painfully, almost pulling them out of the roots.

It takes much for him to keep his hands still, not to run through her hair, down her sides, around her back. He clenches them, forming them into neat little fists, and tries not to think about how soft her skin would feel under his fingers, if only he could bring himself to touch it.

Their kiss ends almost too suddenly, and he reluctantly nips at her bottom lip and pulls away. His eyes graze over her figure.

Her face is red, her eyes are red, and her breath escapes in pants, shoulders heaving. She raises a hand slowly, as if to touch him, reaching nearer and nearer to his face. He sees it nearing his cheek, and leans in as if to accept it—except he doesn't. Her hand drops to the ground quietly, and she looks away.

Even he cannot deny the surge of triumph running through his veins when he sees her so flustered, and only by a mere kiss. He cannot explain the childish, foolish feeling he has now that he knows he has something, someone that belonged to Sasuke—and that she caved in to him, completely, mind, body, soul, of her own free will.

(_as if there were any glory in stealing candy from a child)_

However, he cannot explain the attraction, the gravitation pulling him towards her either, and he certainly cannot fathom why he even bothered responding.

There is nothing particularly special about her, after all. Her hair is strange, but he has seen stranger people than her. Her beliefs are embarrassingly naïve, but it was typical for shinobi her age. Her healing skills were exceptional, but he knows it is nothing compared to that of Tsunade.

Except sometimes when he watches her watching him, he can see the misty look in her eyes, and he knows she sees Sasuke in him a little too often, in a way that was a little too unsettling.

Sometimes he can't help but wonder if he were just a replacement for his otouto. He can read her like an open book, and no matter how many times he would hear her speak to herself, _no, he doesn't fight like Sasuke-kun, he doesn't talk like him, he doesn't look like him. He's not Sasuke and he never will be, because I love Sasuke and I'll never love __**him—**_he knows Sasuke lingers in her memories like a hungry, vengeful ghost.

He had felt the sheer desperation in her kiss and it makes him wonder if she was trying to morph his face into Sasuke's.

"So," she begins, her voice a little cracked, a little tired, a little too weary.

He turns to her and watches her through the corner of his eyes.

He cannot trust himself enough to speak.

"We… kissed."

_Yes you did_, a part of him snarls, like a hungry dog, _yes you did, and you want to do it again, don't you?_

He forces it down, down to the darkest pits of his mind, and sighs, so quietly he barely notices it.

He feels the strange urge to ask back, _did you only kiss me because you wanted me to be **him**?_

Again he tries to supress it.

"What are we now, me and you?"

And still he sits, silently still, and still does he not reply.

* * *

_so i've abandoned my sasusaku and turned this into a drabble collection.  
it was too tempting to resist._


	3. no mercy

The first time she sees him he is bathed in blood, and his figure is so bone-chillingly terrifying she would have run in the opposite direction, except her feet are tied to the ground with invisible shackles, and even if she is scared out of her wits she can't turn away (can't look away).

There is something strangely hypnotizing in his brutality: in the way he spears his katana mercilessly in the chest of an enemy, in the way he chops off the nin's head with no remorse, or in the way he ruthlessly scorches the same body into a pile of ashes. His movements are quick and graceful, she notes, either from years of practice or simply because he enjoys the carnage he wreaks.

A voice inside her says it's both. She is hard pressed to deny.

His eyes, a tinge redder than the blood flowing in rivulets down his arms, slide over to hers with a menacing expression. He walks over to her frozen figure, each step ominous, heavy (making her wonder if she would be the next one).

"And you, little girl," he says, his smooth voice carrying over to her ears, like the sweetest melody, "what are you doing here?"

His words are like magnets, and she can't help but be pulled into his gaze, her wide eyes staring into his with morbid fascination.

For the briefest moment she could see a glimmer of almost-sadness in his eyes, but it is gone as soon as she catches it.

The corners of his lips tug into a cruel smirk so familiar yet so vague, and she watches his Sharingan spin, spin until she could only see crows hovering over mountains of bodies and rivers spilling blood—until she could only hear _seventy-two hours, seventy-two hours, seventy-two hours._

_

* * *

_

Later that night, blood-soaked red-eyed monsters haunt her dreams.

And a voice unmistakably _his_ echoes, quiet as a whisper "Next time, don't try to get yourself involved, girl."

* * *

_first time writing "nice" itachi. tell me how i did?  
merry christmas!  
_


	4. rotting heads

It's a cold, dreary day in December when Sakura decides to give herself a vacation.

She stays in a quaint little countryside town, a three-day jouney from home. This place was _normal_ enough, she supposes—normal meaning the complete absence of anything shinobi-related—to keep her mind off Konoha for a while. It feels good, relaxing, to escape from the cacophony of the village and breathe some fresh air.

On the fourth night of her holiday, Sakura takes a walk. She has long forgone her skintight kunoichi apparel for impractical civillian clothes: fluffy red earmuffs, a warm white trenchcoat and her favorite black leather boots (she tried leaving them behind, really—but her feet just felt so naked). She blends in with the crowd easily, if not for her quiet footsteps born from years of practice, as well as her rather unique pink hair.

The locals once told her the coffee here was good, and so she finds herself walking on an unfamiliar road, looking for a certain Matsumoto cafe, looking both very lost and confused (she never had a good sense of direction)—and that is exactly what an old lady tells her.

"You young people nowadays think you can be so independent, but it's not as if you know everything."

She doesn't know what to say to that, so she stays silent.

"You must be a tourist," she says, pointing a cane at her. It's not a question.

Sakura has to fight the urge the grab the cane out of her old wrinkly hand. She nods.

"Well, where do you want to go?"

...

She is there in less that a minute. As it turns out the cafe was just on the other side of the street, but there were many people blocking the entrance.

The establishment is small and homely, with soft jazz tunes playing from a cassette in the background, and worn but obviously comfortable sofas all around. It smells heavenly, delicious. The pastries and drinks look so appetizing, and quickly she orders a latte and a simple bagel.

She promptly finds a comfortable couch to sit in, and a magazine to leaf through.

Sakura knows she will enjoy this place.

* * *

It's a cold dreary day in December when he decides to relax and drink a cup of coffee.

It is cold, after all, and his hands are as blue as the head he is currently lugging around by the hair.

So he walks, dragging his feet on the snow-covered ground, and wondering whether he should just use a katon to melt the snow and make his life easier. He debates on this for a while, wandering aimlessly, searching for any source of life in this place (in the middle of nowhere).

When he arrives at his decision a mere fifteen seconds later, he lifts his head and realizes he shouldn't have even thought about it. Somehow his feet had already brought him right in the middle of another civilian town, one of those scattered sparsely along this area, and he finds people staring at him (and the head) quite incredulously—and quickly forces himself to stop observing and start _doing._

What to do, what to do?

How had he lowered his guard so easily in the first place?

He morphs into a harmless little villager in the blink of an eye, with nondescript bowl-cut black hair and dull black eyes, and the head into a convenient scroll. Then efficiently he turns on his demon-red sharingan and forces them to look.

And they are caught.

"Forget," he says, with a deep, hypnotic voice, willing them to erase him from their memories.

And they do.

And so everything goes back to normal. It is a normal Sunday afternoon again, with parents and children chasing each other down the street, hawkers selling their wares down the street. They don't even know there is an s-class missing nin standing just beside them. Just another face in the crowd, another person in a sea of strangers.

It's a cold, dreary day in December when he decides to relax and drink a cup of coffee.

Another day in the life.

* * *

When he walks into the café, she puts down her magazine and looks. She wouldn't have spared a glance if he weren't so intimidating.

Despite this stranger's humble appearance, he carries with him a sort of quiet confidence, bordering arrogant, an aura that says I'm-here-for-a-reason-and-I'll-get-it-done-quick—but they were just in a coffee shop. What the hell?

She hears his voice when he orders (as her seat is very close to the cashier), and it is… unusual, for the lack of a better word. It is as deep and as sure as a man's, but the way he spoke was as graceful as a woman's. She could not hear a trace of any particular accent, but it sounded like a medley of them.

It could be a shinobi, her mind says. From his "professional" aura down to his voice, he certainly seems like one. A shinobi under a henge. Check it out.

She sends a brief flare of chakra to verify it, to estimate his chakra stores.

…nowhere near shinobi-levels.

Damn. She was overanalyzing this.

He receives his hot, steaming mug soon enough, and it suddenly makes her realize that her latte was getting cold, and that she wasn't even halfway through.

The thought leaves as quickly as it comes when she sees him walking in her direction.

She tries to look away but she can't, as much as she wanted to. She was on paid leave, for heaven's sake, to enjoy herself and have some rest and relaxation—and not to ogle some civilian buying coffee.

…

…

…

He gestures to the empty seat right in front of her and asks if he can take it, using that same unusual voice from before.

She can't stop herself from nodding.

_This isn't gonna get any better, is it?_

* * *

Of all the people in the world, he doesn't expect to see her there.

Sugar, spice and everything nice wrapped up in a thick red sweater, together with cotton-candy pink hair and lime-green eyes.

So this is the infamous Haruno Sakura, he thinks to himself as he settles in the plush one-seater. Apprentice of Tsunade-hime. Naruto's teammate. Sasuke's teammate.

This girl had Konoha written all over her. She looked so innocent it was almost laughable, but the suspicious glint in her eyes told him otherwise.

He offers an uneasy smile, though from the slight twitch in his muscles, he could easily discern that it looked anything but. Instead he raises his hands up in the air like a caught criminal (belatedly, the irony amuses him), and speaks, "I assure you, miss, I mean you no harm."

"Oh, did I make you uncomfortable, sir? I'm really sorry."

He deliberately takes a slow sip from his mug, chuckling inwardly at the guilty expression on her face. "It's quite alright."

"I swear, I didn't mean to. It's just that I'm not quite used to this place yet. And you seem kind of… different, that's all."

"So I've been told."

_Depends on what you mean by "different"._

* * *

To be honest, he does know that he shouldn't have approached her. It was completely unnecessary and could possibly end up being not in his favor, but he had been feeling quite lonely for some time now, because joining an organization composed of slightly-psychotic, special-in-a-very-unique-way, and emotionally-repressed men (and woman) was slowly, carefully, draining away the last dredges of his social life—and so a talkative, friendly girl was a refreshing change.

He was drawn to her like a magnet.

"A question, if I may?"

"Of course."

"What are you doing here all alone? I'm sure a pretty girl like you would rather have some company."

She answers quickly, without missing a beat. "Well, you're here now, aren't you? You're good company."

At this, she blushes a full, deep red, like a tomato, and has to pull away from his gaze just to compose herself.

* * *

They continue talking.

He doesn't exactly know where he is going with this conversation, with all these not-so-subtle hints of flirting, double entendres and hidden meanings. What was supposed to be time for getting to know her turned into "getting to know" him, as he divulged false information about himself, such as his birthplace to his job, and certain truths, like his favorite book and type of scarf.

He doesn't exactly know what's going on with him, either. Through some unfathomable method, he is able to calmly hold intelligent conversation with a beautiful woman while hiding a rotting head underneath his cloak. His voice is straight, level, calm. His posture betrays nothing. His demeanor is anything but suspicious.

He doesn't understand how he does it.

Any lesser man would be fidgeting by now, but he isn't just any man, he figures. That must be the reason.

"You were saying?" he asks, fingering the scroll in the cloak with his left hand.

"Why's nine afraid of seven?"

"...why?"

"Because seven eight nine!"

His face grows blank. "...okay."

* * *

Soon enough it is time for him to leave, as his work didn't leave him much free time. It would be best now, he surmises, to give the head back to the contractor (before the smell became too rancid to handle) so he could receive the payment, and head on to his next assignment.

Not even this good of a distraction could keep him away from his duties.

"You're leaving? So soon?"

"I'm afraid so. It's an important matter."

"I haven't even introduced myself to you yet," she says, a smile growing on her face, "—my manners. I'm Haruno Sakura." She extends him a slim hand, waiting for him to take it.

_I know that. And I think it's about time I introduce myself to you, too._

He guides just the slightest bit of chakra, dark and powerful, into his palm as he shakes her hand, "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Sakura," his voice lowers to a whisper, "My name is Uchiha Itachi."

* * *

He leaves the store, his steps steady and sure, while she is left gaping like a fish brought out of water.

The only reminder of his presence is his still-untouched cappuccino.

Really, she sighed, she should've known.

* * *

_happy valentine's day!_


	5. sleep tight

_au._

* * *

She was about to rest when he knocked at her window, obviously weary, making her wonder what sort of trouble he had gotten himself involved in again. Perhaps, she said to herself then, his sudden appearance like smoke should have startled her, but then again she had seen enough demonstrations of his... abilities to care otherwise.

She said, "I wasn't expecting—"

He cut her off. "You don't have to, Sakura."

Then he kissed her. Lovingly, fervently, passionately. His hands were everywhere, tangling in the thick mess of her hair, wrapping around her slim waist, cupping her backside, pulling her closer to him. He made her feel so deliciously warm inside, and need was quickly replacing her drowsiness and so she responded. She pulled back his hood and ran her fingers through his hair, messing it out of the neat tie it was always in. Her back arched in a silent demand for more.

It took them quite a while to end their kiss.

It had been too long, far too long. "I missed you," she whispered, and buried her head in the crook of his shoulder.

Sure enough, his kiss left her breathless, and she could only stare back at him as intensely as he did her. They were so close that she could easily feel the cold of the steel armor beneath his cloak, the rough hilts of the various blades and knives strapped on his waist, just as easily as the warmth of his skin penetrated through her thin sleeping gown.

She missed both quite terribly when he pulled away.

"Are you alright? Is something wrong?"

"I'm injured."

Now that he said it, she could recall feeling something damp on his sleeves.

His words made her worry—though he had always been an excellent fighter, he was still quite sickly, and so even a slight infection of his wounds could lead to complications. "It's good that you've come here right away, then," she said. "Where is it?"

"Right arm."

She went to him purposefully, deft fingers reaching out to his sleeve, unrolling it slowly, carefully up his arm to reveal scratches, many of them, criss crossing along his forearm, blood dribbling slowly from his wounds.

She held back the grimace on her face when she saw it, as much as she wanted to fuss all over him, the healer inside her took over, emptying her mind of all thoughts until all she could focus on was how to deal with the situation. She barely heard herself speak. "Take a seat. I'll go get some supplies."

He made himself comfortable in her satin sheets, and looked around her room.

Everything still seemed so familiar. Her messy desk was still scattered with pieces of parchment and ink all over, her old violin perched precariously on its edge. He grabbed a pillow from her huge bed, careful not to let his injured arm come in contact with it, lest the downy white pillowcase be stained with his blood.

He would hate to see that.

He buried the soft material over his face, and inhaled.

He could smell her; vanilla, lilies, with something so uniquely earthy it was just hers. It made him remember the nights he spent in this room, like this, in the middle of the night, waking her up, kissing her breathless, then sending her off to sleep again, with him snugly beside her. Sakura being Sakura, her feisty mouth always told him off for interrupting her "beauty sleep" like so, yet her genuinely happy smile belied her relief at seeing him again.

All this coming and going was a minor inconvenience for him, sure, as her home was at the opposite side of the only gate into the city (and his was conveniently placed near it), yet her frayed nerves were always soothed with his presence, and she seemed to be sleeping more deeply when he was beside her.

No matter how much of a hassle it seemed, It was all worth it. For her smile. The delicious warmth of her body beside his and her nimble fingers taking care of his injuries, they were all just bonuses.

She came back with a set of bandages, a basin of water, a small cloth and some ointment. His ever-alert senses jolted him, his shoulders tensed.

"You act so surprised to see me, Itachi," she chuckled, and sat down at his side.

He snorted quietly, and suddenly the floor became very interesting as she tried, as gently as she could, to clean the wounds on his arm.

He needed to distract himself somehow. She was cleaning a very deep cut now, one he got when he was getting careless. A soldier with a knife had struck his arm when he wasn't looking. The pain was uncomfortable, not unbearable, but it was still quite substansial.

His words seemed stuck in his throat. "Tell me about your day."

So she did tell him about her day, about how her father's cat had gone missing, how the whole household went into a frenzy looking for him, about how she loved the roses that had just bloomed in their garden, how she wanted him to come and visit them—and slowly, surely, he was feeling more and more drowsy, his eyelids drooping lower and lower, and as much as he wanted to listen more to her mundane everyday matters, he couldn't help but succumb to his exhaustion.

She was in the middle of tying the knot on his bandages when his head dropped heavily on her shoulder. She had to start all over again, much to her dismay, but the disappointment was quickly replaced with embarrassment as she realized how close he was to her face, so close that she could easily count the number of lashes on his (beautiful) eyes, so close that she could feel his hot breath on her skin, that if she so much as turned, then his lips would be—

Gods, she did _not _want to think about that!

She blushed despite herself. Here she was, acting all flustered just because of him lying on her shoulder, yet she could vividly remember just how wantonly she responded to his ministrations when he made love to her, how eagerly she would moan when he whispered the most sordid things in her ear...

Oh no, oh no, oh no. This wasn't going anywhere.

Carefully, with much difficulty, she dislodged herself from his heavy body, successfully not waking him (which was quite a feat in itself, as he was such a light sleeper) and removed his greaves, his vambraces, his armor, and finally his cloak, before settling him into her bed.

She lied next to him and promptly slept, enjoying a deep peaceful slumber that had eluded her for the past few weeks. She didn't know exactly how it happened, but somehow she couldn't doze off properly without him by her side.

The corners of her lips quirked.

She was right where she belonged.

* * *

_If you can guess what series inspired this story, leave it in a review. Get it right and I'll write you a drabble here. g'luck!  
_


	6. mixed signals

(_seven_)  
mixed signals: the more you hate, the more you love. He said he never hated someone as much as he hated her, so what was that supposed to mean?

* * *

"I am going to tear you apart from limb to limb, you homicidal son of a bitch. I'll rip the skin off your bones and drain every last drop of blood from your body. I'll make you hurt in ways that will have you crying out for your mother, Uchiha-oh, I almost forgot. She's _dead_."

"I can barely imagine what sort of depraved person you must be, to stoop so low as to kill your own parents."

"But no, I don't think you deserve to be called human anymore, considering how you just love screwing around with other people's lives, like how you did with that of your own brother."

"No-you're a fucking monster."

At this Kisame found it pertinent to walk to their feisty Konoha captive and shut her troublesome mouth up. She was becoming way too loud for her own good, and her high-pitched female voice was just grating on his ears, like nails on a chalkboard.

"Can't call on your bluff, princess?"

"You can't even touch him with those pretty little hands of yours, much less make him cry, as you say." He sneered, bringing his face mere inches away from hers, studying her intently. His dull eyes bored holes of mockery in her skin. "Get over it, Haruno: you lost, we won. Now do us all a favor and_ stop being such a whiny bitch_."

There was a pregnant pause that hung in the air after he said this, and Kisame was almost beginning to feel relieved that she actually got what he was trying to say, until Sakura fixed her feverish, almost delirious eyes on his, and told the missing-nin in no uncertain terms: "Go fuck yourself."

He let a roar of laughter that echoed across the walls of her tiny prison as he walked out the door, leaving Sakura alone withthat man, who was standing on the other side of the cell covered in shadows, like a wraith, and the unseen tension between them was so heavy she almost forgot how to breathe.

Sakura broke the oppressive silence after a few terse minutes. "You have no idea how much I hate you," she said, offhandedly, as if commenting on the weather. It was a simple fact that was rooted in the deepest corners of her heart, ever since the day she first knew his name, and what he had done (and still was doing) to both of her genin teammates, and now that the man himself was standing before her, silently, watching her off the corner of his eye, she figured it wouldn't hurt to inform him of her thoughts. It was much like talking to a brick wall, she thought. Unproductive, sure, but it still helped.

"On the contrary," he replied, surprising her. His deep melodic voice would have been nice to listen to, perhaps, if not for the pure malice dripping from his next words. "You have no idea how much I utterly despise you, little girl. You and your most beloved Konoha."

She scoffed. She would punch him if she could, but the shackles on her wrists sucked her chakra dry the moment they were replenished, and she barely had enough energy to continue trading insults with her captor as it was. "You're such an ungrateful brat, you know that? Where would you be now if it weren't for Konoha?"

"Better off than you are, certainly." He regarded her curiously, coming closer to her in the blink of an eye, raking rough fingers all over her blood soaked clothes and fisting his hand tightly around her muddy hair. "Naive, foolish, immature. They produce such children nowadays."

Sakura found an opening to spit on him, as he had brought his chest almost scandalously close to hers, so she did it-letting loose all her spite and anger in that single action, only to realize that he had avoided it at the last moment. Now he was leaning on the makeshift table in the middle of the room, his pale fingers contrasting greatly with the dirty old wood. If she didn't know any better, she would say he was disgusted by her behavior-but she knew otherwise. His face remained unreadable, like a mask.

Her eyes burned with hatred that matched the sheer boredom clouding his.

She seethed inwardly, growling, "At least we didn't end up becoming monsters like you."

He came before her again and grabbed her chin quite suddenly, tracing the contours of her jaw with such tenderness not unlike that of a lover, and it made her want to shrivel up and wilt in shame. His grip tightened, forcing her to look at him as his bladed, blood red sharingan spun in a hypnotizing circle.

She grit her teeth, bracing herself for the pain that was sure to come. I will be strong, she said to herself, , _if Kakashi-sensei and Sasuke-kun couldn't handle it, then what chance have **you **got?_

I will be strong.

I will be strong.

If not for me, then for Naruto and Sasuke.

But there was nothing happening as she still stared at those eyes spinning lazy circles, no red sky and wailing crows hanging above her head, and she could only watch in stunned silence as Itachi allowed a smug smirk to grow on his face, whispering in her ear, "Monster doesn't even begin to cut it."

Then he picked up his cloak off the table, cool as you please, and left her cell silently, locking it shut, as if nothing happened at all.

Sakura let out a breath she didn't even realize she was holding. _What the hell was that supposed to mean, huh?_

_

* * *

a/n: many "moments" like this and tons of UST later, they finally had hate!sex. just kidding. but really, i'm starting to miss the jerk itachi of the old days, back when he used to be such an ass. what about you?_


	7. private tutor

_eight_  
private tutor: It's quite hard to focus on your answer sheet when you have such a delicious _tutor_ hovering over your shoulder like a hawk.  


* * *

"I think you need a break."

The pen did not stop scratching. The numbers did not stop flowing. The thoughts did not stop running. And she was still working, working, working.

"I said, you should rest."

Sakura was tired, this he knew. Dead tired. He could easily see the way her shoulders slumped over her thin frame, the way her eyelids drooped heavily over her dazed green eyes. She was dead tired, and she was still so stubborn. Not exactly a good combination.

So he yanked the pen from her quivering fingers, drawing a crooked line from one end of her scratch paper to another.

"Go to bed."

She blinked owlishly at him, eyebags plentiful like smudged eyeliner. If she were more awake, she would have been pissed, probably, because _what the hell?_ He drew such an ugly line on her perfectly neat paper. "What?" she drawled.

"I'm quite sure your Hatake-sensei would not appreciate it if you fall asleep so quickly tomorrow, within seconds of answering the first equation."

"Go to bed," he repeated.

"No..." she whispered. She felt so tired, so drained, why couldn't he just go away and leave her in peace? She didn't want to deal with his overwhelming presence. Not right now. Not when her finals are _tomorrow_ and she can't even focus right.

Itachi heaved a long sigh. Did they really have to go through this again? "What's your excuse now?"

"I just have to answer... this last problem," at this she yawned, "you see. Here, number four. I don't even know what I'm doing wrong anymore. Hell, I can't even multiply right anymore. But... I can't stop until I get this one right."

"The answer is three."

"I know that!" she snapped. "It's right here!" She jabbed the worksheet with wobbly fingers, pointing at the spot where she copied the answer that afternoon, a few minutes before she left the school. "I'm not stupid."

"Then why bother solving it again if you already know the solution?"

"I don't know _how_ they got that value. And you know just how much I hate it when I don't. fucking. Understand. It." she growled.

He studied her intently, she could feel it. His eyes were doing that thing again, pinning her down with his steady somehow it was as if he were looking through her, not at her—but she paid no mind. His delicious warmth was seeping through his thin shirt, and she promptly found herself curling up to him like a little kitten.

It was such a horrible idea to cram...

"Listen," she said, burying her nose in the rough fabric, relieved when he didn't pull away like she thought he would. He was such a private person, she knew he felt uncomfortable when she touched him, much less cuddled him, though she gave him plus points for trying to act like it didn't bother him. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It's just so... frustrating. I haven't been in the best of moods recently and I—"

"Found it," he whispered, his hot breath fanning her ear, startling her so much her eyes burst open in surprise. The brightness of her study light hurt so much.

"Found what?"

"What you got wrong." There she grimaced.

"You wrote the representation correctly, but you interchanged your variables somewhere... along... here," he scraped a nail on her paper, slightly damp fingers smudging yet again the ink of her pen. "You solved it from here, then, but since your variables were mixed up, the final answer you got was wrong."

"...oh." She fumbled for her paper then, checking her solution another time, what she hoped would be the last, because she was getting so sick of trying to decipher her hastily written numbers, trying to figure out if she copied the numbers right or not. Mind whirring mile a minute, with the help of adrenaline surging through her system (finally, she was getting _somewhere_ near the answer), she spotted the error and quickly fixed it.

"There," she smiled him a weary smile. "Done."

"Now, would you rest?"

"Mm, yes," she said, finding a comfortable spot to burrow her head in the cradle of his arms. "Though it's not really fair how you're... so... smart..." and she fell into a deep, peaceful slumber.

"I just hope you'll get to remember everything you studied tonight, Sakura. You shouldn't make such foolish mistakes in your exams tomorrow."

"Just because you're a math major doesn't mean everyone else finds it easy, Itachi." –or so he thought.

His teasing smirk was the last thing Sakura saw before she did really fall asleep, and so she missed hearing what he said right after: "Next time you can't answer your homework, come and ask me for help," then he ruffled her hair almost affectionately.

With that, he scooped her up and carried her off to bed, setting her alarm clock extra early, just in case she would abuse the snooze button as always.  


* * *

a/n: how i wish. it would be so easy to get a perfect score when you're learning from... _him._ but that's not happening anytime soon. :|. having a math test tomorrow and i'm feeling horribly unprepared. wish me good luck?


	8. thunderstorm

_(nine)_  
thunderstorm: Itachi's version of kissing in the rain involves comforting sobbing schoolgirls, and completing stupid teenage dares.

* * *

It was raining when he first saw her. The sky was dark, with heavy gray clouds looming ominously over the distance, and lightning sparked in short, random intervals. The harsh pitter-patter of the rain was all he could hear as he made his way through the train station, his clothes sopping wet.

He was not going home early tonight, it seemed.

Wiping away the beads of rain running down his face, he began to look for a seat in the mostly empty area, only to find it right beside a quietly sobbing schoolgirl. She hid her face behind pale, shaking hands, and belatedly he noticed her bag dropped carelessly beside her seat, thrown open. Her books were scattered all over the wet floor, soaking up rainwater mixed with all the dirt accumulated by the tiles.

Either she was too troubled not to notice, or she was troubled enough not to care.

He wondered what made her feel so miserable he found her sitting on a corner crying, because really, young girls like her shouldn't be made to cry like that, most especially on a stormy night like this.

Then he sighed slowly to himself, again wondering, except this time, he asked himself why he cared to bother. He should be finding another place to set his briefcase and rest, because he felt bone tired and mind numbingly weary, and not staring curiously at the girl in front of him, who seemed content to wallow in her own misery.

He shouldn't care, and he surely didn't.

Of course.

But it couldn't be helped. The only place left that was dry enough to sit on was the chair right beside her, and so he had no choice but to stay there to wait for the train that was most probably going to be delayed... for quite some time.

Gingerly, he picked up the damp books from the floor before walking to the empty seat, as he didn't want her to cry some more because he stepped all over them, taking the thick paperbacks with cautious fingers, trying not to get them wetter than they already were. He stacked them carefully, one on top of the other, near her school bag.

He slumped on the chair as gracefully as he allowed himself to do so, extending his knees and settling himself for a long wait. Finally, he thought, he would get a chance to relax—well, as much as he possibly could with a sobbing girl beside him. He didn't exactly care to comfort her much. Whatever she was crying about was obviously none of his business and he certainly found nothing worthwhile in prying anyway.

She would get over it, sooner or later.

That was when he heard a little shuffling at his side, and the girl dropped her hands from her face to look at him owlishly, her eyes barely visible from the darkness of the night.

She spoke, in a hushed tone he barely heard over the noise of the rain. "Thank you," she said. "And I'm sorry."

Perhaps he could bear not to acknowledge it at that moment. It was excusable. The rain was loud and he couldn't hear her clearly. Her voice was too soft to be understood. He was too tired to say anything in return. But the words left his mouth before he could even think about it. "What for?"

She chuckled, the sound coming out awkwardly through her mouth. After all, her nose was congested with all the snot from her previous bout of sobs. It didn't sound very nice, but she hardly cared. This was someone, at least, who would listen, she thought. And not judge her for it.

Said someone cursed at himself for saying anything in the first place.

"Thank you... for cleaning up after me. I know strangers like you aren't supposed to do that. And I'm sorry. Sorry for crying. It must have made you uncomfortable."

He bit his tongue in response. Had he not, he would have said: believe me, I don't particularly relish the idea of being your new babysitter. But of course he did still have his sense of propriety, and now that he had inadvertently started this strange, sort-of conversation between them, he had no choice but to continue it.

And so he had to look for words to say, and that endeavor took him quite a while, most especially because he had no experience in the realm of talking to barely-finished-crying teenage girls. A heavy silence fell upon them, and she shifted her uneasy gaze away from him. Only the sound of her blowing on her handkerchief broke the monotonous drill of rain.

Meanwhile, his genius mind had finally arrived at a correct response at her words, and he reluctantly forced the word out of his throat? "Why?"

She stopped relieving her nose at his tightly-lipped response. She would have laughed at his blatant discomfort as he forced himself to say words she knew he didn't really care to say, and tried to make a futile attempt to inject a caring tone into them (she was not blind. After all she could easily see the grimace threatening to drown his face as she spoke.) "Why what?" she droned. "I am going to assume you are asking me why I am crying."

"I'd rather not tell you. I don't think you'd want to know anyway."

Belatedly a voice in her head reminded her that if he didn't want to know, he wouldn't have asked, but she dismissed it.

He was a stranger; he wouldn't give a damn either way.

"Someone once told me," he began, unsure of how to continue. "That a problem shared is a problem halved."

He voice was smug, almost arrogant in demeanor, reminding her of someone she knew, yet she couldn't exactly place. She didn't like it one bit. "I am going to assume," he mimicked her-that she didn't like as well. "That it must be a grave problem that you're dealing with, if it did _this _to you." He waved a slim hand all over her figure, taking note of the redness of her eyes, her nose, her cheeks.

It occurred to him that she might actually pass off as pretty if she didn't look as pathetic as she did now. Her eyes were a brilliant green, complementing her pink hair in an unusual sort of way. She certainly looked... different.

"I never expected things to end this way," she said. "Though I honestly do think I expected too much."

He said nothing in response, only looked at her with a casual hint of interest in his gaze. She took this as a sign to continue. "You see, at my sixteenth birthday a few months ago, I accidentally let it slip that I never had my first kiss. It was quite the bombshell for my friends, I think, that even until now they haven't forgotten about it."

"And so a few weeks ago my best friend," at this her tone changed, resembling a bittersweet flavor to it, as though she was recounting something she found funny then, but now she didn't particularly like. "And so my best friend dared me to go to this guy, take him out on a date and get things over with. He was my crush since fourth grade, and rumor has it that he had just recently broken up with his girlfriend, that he was now free game again."

"She told me to do it or she'd spill about what happened eighth grade summer-which I would rather not tell you about, if you won't mind."

"I don't." He wasn't particularly listening to her story, as he had little interest in it, but he would much rather have a rambling girl beside him than a sobbing one, so he let her talk. It struck him as foolish though, at some point, that girls like her would make such a big deal about kissing kids of the opposite sex.

It wasn't anything special, in his opinion.

"Things went as planned. I asked him out, he agreed, surprisingly, then we were on our date. It was going fine, I guess. That is, until he brought me back to my house."

"I was gonna kiss him then and there, just to get things over with, and finish that dare. I put my hands on his face like this," she put her hands on her jaw to demonstrate, not that he needed the visual. "And almost got to it. Except that he pulled away."

"Then afterwards he told me that the date was a dare for him to get kissed by a girl."

"As if that wasn't bad enough he proceeded to tell me why, exactly, he didn't want to continue. Apparently, he was a closet homosexual, and he hardly found me attractive."

"Then there was the fact that he said he could barely put up with my company the whole afternoon."

At this, he fully expected her to pause for dramatic effect, perhaps to gauge his response to her mundane tale of adolescent foolishness and other childish behavior. But there was none, and she was talking again.

So he sits still and tries so very hard to pay attention.

"I guess I had it coming. He was always... you know, a cold fish. I just—I just never expected it to hurt so much when he said all of those things to me."

Ah, he realized. The boy she had talked about sounded eerily similar to someone he knew. Same set of weird friends who had a propensity to craft idiotic dares, same closeted homosexual tendencies, same tactlessness when dealing with girls. He would have asked her about the identity of her crush, to confirm, but it would take too much effort, and he was still tired.

This day was draining him more than it had any right to, he would have complained-had it been in his nature to do so.

"And that was it. That's all. Now you know." She was now staring off into the distance. The rain just had to get worse, did it not? Thunder was rumbling almost every other minute, and she shivered. "Though I can't exactly see how that was supposed to help. I certainly don't feel any better now."

"You aren't crying anymore, are you?" he replied, staring at the opposite direction. He faced her, choosing his words carefully.

"Am I to understand that your situation—"

"You're putting it lightly." She shifted. Instead of facing to the side, now she was facing the front. Her eyes locking into his but not quite, her eyes staring into the sky, but not entirely. "It's my giant supermassive _predicament_."

"Am I to understand that your situation," he said again, placing an exasperated emphasis on the word, "was all because you haven't yet received your first kiss?"

He was making it sound so silly, she fumed, that it was becoming more than a little irritating to her. This man just had to get on her nerves, didn't he? She turned yet again, facing him fully, whispering in hushed tones. "You don't understand, stranger. It's not that I—"

All words were suddenly cut off as he quickly slanted towards her and pulled her in for a kiss. It was not what one would call chaste, and most especially not what one would expect from a first kiss. His deft tongue slipped past her open lips to delicately trace the contours of her mouth, and she remained unresponsive as weak frissons of pleasure began to ride up and down her arms, and he took it upon himself to skim his hand up to her neck and rub it in small, light circles.

She didn't expect that. She honestly never expected that, not in a million years, that this stupid, smug, infuriating man would be kissing her out of nowhere, out of no reason. Most of all, she didn't expect that she would _like _it.

It was at this time that, with eyes open wide, she finally got a good glimpse at her stranger. His dark, half-lidded eyes were unrepentant as he twined his tongue around hers, playing with it with short, frequent flicks. She had the strangest urge to wrap her arms around his thick hair and pull him closer, but she dampened it as quickly as it came. The situation was as unsettling as it already could be, and she had no intention to make it even worse.

When he drew away slowly, she couldn't help whimper lightly, immediately missing the friction of his mouth against hers.

She saw satisfaction written in lines across his face, like a cat with his cream. He smirked slowly. "That should fix it," he said.

She tried to hide the blush growing on her cheeks, looking down. "It's not like I really _needed_ to be kissed...," she said, picking up from when she left earlier.

"Can't say you didn't like it, though," he came upon her once again to breathe his words on the shell of her sensitive ears, and try as hard as she could, she was unable to find it in herself to pull away.

"I didn't even say I liked it!" She pushed him away roughly, not caring if it would offend him, though inwardly she blanched at her audacity. Since when did she start talking to strangers like she knew them all her life? Since when did she ever allow strangers, especially creepy strangers like _him_, to just pull her in and kiss her?

Never.

Inwardly, she resigned herself to her fate: having to deal with this arrogant, annoying man right beside her, who was twice as smug after their kiss.

"I'm quite sure I heard a little sound from you when I pulled away. If that doesn't mean you liked it, then I don't know what does."

The loud roar of the approaching train prevented her from voicing any further objections, much to his approval. He didn't see the point of her denial, anyway. He was much too experienced to be fooled by her bluffs.

She had liked it and he knew it.

"Come," he said, picking up his suitcase where he left it on a nearby counter. "Train's here. We should leave."

"Hey! Wait for me!" she hollered, seeing him wait almost impatiently on the edge of the tracks. "Don't you dare leave me behind—I won't be able to go home!"

Hearing her words, he grimaced at the prospect of a ride home with her for company.

It was going to be a long night.

He could only hope he was tired enough to be unable to hear her voice.

If not, he could always kiss her again.

He was only trying to help, was he not? At least her friends would cease pestering her about her… situation, now that he singlehandedly resolved it.

* * *

a/n: i know, i know. it's been a while. :). i can only hope this is to your liking, especially because it's more than twice as long as the longest chapter i have here. hahaha. please tell me what you think.


	9. the good fight

_(ten)_  
the good fight: this is good enough. she needs him, and he needs her. that's enough. for him, she will stay. forever.

* * *

"Stay."

There is so much a silent man like him can convey in a single word, and she can't even begin to decipher the meaning behind what he has just said. He wants her to stay, he doesn't want her to leave, he wouldn't like it if she went away, he needs her…

Him, needing her.

Her mind runs through a million implications of his statement, poring over the mysteries of how the hell this came to be, since when did he ever begin to show anything even remotely related to affection to her (then memories of his deep, drugging kisses flash unbidden before her eyes, so vividly that she can almost taste him in her tongue—and she cannot deny how _eagerly_ he could demonstrate his want of her, so this train of thought is abruptly halted).

In that moment, she thinks he might just love her as much as she loves him, and that is enough.

She does not want romantic candlelit dinners or bouquets of roses or songs of love, nor does she need him to hold her hand everywhere and brush her hair and make her breakfast in bed, just that one word, said with unmistakable sincerity, coupled with his intense (possessive, magnetizing, hypnotizing) gaze is enough. She couldn't be any happier.

After all, she has nothing left to lose.

She pulls his head down to her neck with small, dainty hands, and whispers to his ear.

"I will."

He buries his nose in her soft, sensitive skin and breathes, making her shiver. He can smell everything. Her scent, her sweat, her excitement, her arousal, her blood. It is this combination that makes for a deadly concotion, sending adrenalin through his system, making his senses hypersensitive, driving his throat dry with thirst.

Her blood. It smells like the sweetest nectar, the ripest apple, the most heavenly ambrosia.

He can only imagine how delicious itwould taste, if he would just take a bite.

"Forever," he says.

Her eyes slip close.

"Forever."

And he indulges.

* * *

a/n: i must admit, this is not exactly one of my best ones. i was trying to wait out the minutes before i'd have to sleep by writing something, then i found this little wonder lying around my messily organized story folder. i think this was supposed to be a snippet of one of my many story ideas that never really came alive-but i can't seem to remember the idea behind it. and so we have this. :). i always had a fascination with vampfic, tbh.


	10. nostalgia

(eleven)  
nostalgia: you will remember my name.

* * *

"Do I know you from somewhere?"

Her ever-familiar green eyes seemed genuinely curious this time, he noted blankly. She looked almost ethereal in this light, under the rays of the setting sun, like a stranger from a far stranger place, a far stranger plane. The irony should have amused him.

She had forgotten him once again, like so many times before—it should not faze him so much, he thought, it was certainly not the first time, nor would this be the last time, but the apprehension in her form as he neared her was quickly becoming unsettling.

None of it mattered, though. He would make her remember. No matter how many times time wipes away the memory of his name in her heart he will etch it there once more, and that is how it will always be. She is his, and that would not change no matter how many centuries pass, no matter how many lifetimes pass, no matter how many times she finds herself reborn into another person, into another life.

She will find herself back to where she belongs: with him. And until then, he can wait.

He can wait.

There was always so much time, and he intended to make the most out of it—starting with her.

The corners of his lips curved despite himself, and he watched as her earlier apprehension turned into something more familiar. She was blushing.

Whether it was from his proximity or his action he did not know, but in all his years with her he was never able to find out why she looked red in the face whenever he approached her, and so he did not bother to wonder any more.

Some things just never change.

_(Like him, unfortunately for her. She was never going to be able to completely forget him, not if he could help it.)_

Finally, he lifted his gaze to hers and replied to her curious question, a wistful look brushing past his face. "Yes you do," he said. "Yes you do."

He would make her remember.

* * *

note: this was supposed to be some sidestory to circles, actually. but it didn't exactly fit the plot because... because. the situation here is reversed from the one in the circles. hahahaha. in short, itachi is the one who forgets there, not sakura. soo. yes. i decided to add it here instead, since i haven't been touching this for ages. :)). tell me what you think!


	11. fantasy

_(eleven)_  
_fantasy: night unhinges the restraint of day._

* * *

It starts with a vision.

A hazy figure in the darkness, with a voice that echoes loudly in his mind. It is a woman, he thinks, one that he may have met before—the lilting of her words seems somewhat familiar. He allows himself to drown in this dream, to lose himself in this realm of sensation. He knows he is safe in the confines of his mind; there is not much he cannot control within it.

"I remember you, Uchiha Itachi," she whispers, and his ears tingle as though her lips are touching it. "A stern man. A forbidding man. Sometimes the mere mention of you scares me so much I can't even think."

"But I've always watched you, and I've always wondered—" at this he feels cool fingers trailing down his arm, coaxing tiny hairs to stand on end. "What would it take for you to lose control?"

Lips on his neck. He stays still, alert. "Surely the pleasures of the flesh don't tempt you. You are far too cerebral for that."

"What would it take for you to come apart at the seams?" Hot breath on his nape. He blinks once and he might have seen a flash of green eyes. An enchanting shade of green, the color of morning grass misted by dew. He begins to wonder what had brought about this dream, why, of all things, he dreams of a woman—why she questions things he doesn't even bother to think about.

"Death? Loss? Grief? Or perhaps betrayal?" The voice is farther away now. He no longer feels the warmth of her presence against his, but tell tale tingle at the back of his fingers tell him she hasn't gone too far. "No, you have faced all of these in your life, and yet your composure has not once cracked."

"What would it take for you to feel?"

So that's where she was leading to. Figures. This is yet another game played by his subconscious, invading his sleep. It teases him with promises of what could have been, what should have been, what could be. He likes to play along, to pretend that his reality is an illusion and his illusion could be a reality. A delightfully entertaining one for tonight, it seems.

A hint of a smirk curved his thin lips. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

A childish giggle. "Would you care to indulge me in this?" He feels her hands hook behind his neck, as she stands on her toes to press her lips against his.

And he allows her this much, because he is safe in the confines of his own mind, and there is not much he cannot control within it. And so he experiments with this little fantasy, wondering if this could ever be enough to make him feel the way she wants him to, and knowing the answer anyway.

* * *

He wakes up with a start. Cold air brushes past his overheated skin, slick with sweat. The thin blanket covering him is crinkled by his tense fingers. He will not remember this dream, but the image of those green eyes will haunt him for nights to come.

* * *

_a/n: hi. please review._


End file.
